


sad insanity

by JadeLupine



Series: Momentum [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Beauty - Freeform, Dreams, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Madness, Masturbation, Romance, Sex, Shared Orgasm, literary, post-mizumono
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:23:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeLupine/pseuds/JadeLupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post Mizumono. </p><p>Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham try to recover from their shared wounds together. Or not.<br/><i></i><br/><i><br/>“Maybe…” Will mumbles, closing his eyes. “There is an entire, mad eternity in every moment we’ve experienced.”</i><br/> <br/><i>“It could be.” Hannibal muses, his hand thrown over Will’s chest, his head touching his shoulder blade. “Then, we could share a million lifetimes instead of our meager months.” </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	sad insanity

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicidal Intention in the second drabble. Feel free to skip that one!
> 
> This is in response to a prompt to my blog -  
>  __  
> Hannibal and Will, after Season 2.
> 
> and it just grew from there. 
> 
> This is a sad piece, but it has a happy ending, I swear.

“Maybe…” Will mumbles, closing his eyes. “There is an entire, mad eternity in every moment we’ve experienced.”

“It could be.” Hannibal muses, his hand thrown over Will’s chest, his head touching his shoulder blade. “Then, we could share a million lifetimes instead of our meager months.”

“Maybe.” Will nods off into the fingers of sleep. “Maybe.”

Hannibal watches.

_

God save our gracious queen, Will thinks quietly, as he tries to drown himself in the glimmering, shimmering darkness of his bathtub. It feels happy, the rush of air and water and screams – even though it was sad. It was terribly sad, especially when Will comes back up for air, hoisted up by the strong, knotted hands of Hannibal Lecter, kisser, kisser, lover, fire.

They are pale in the light of suicidal intentions.

“Never.” Hannibal’s eyes are fire and his teeth ivory stone. He is Shiva – creator and destructor, and he is _savior_. “Never.”

N-e-v-e-r.

“I’m sorry.” Will chokes sadly, and the scar on his abdomen burns and boils, as if taunting him – _hahahahahaha you couldn’t drown!!!_

“I love you.” Hannibal says into his neck, teeth touching wet skin. “I love you more than I love anything. More than everything.”

“Except yourself.” Ghostly laugh – from Will – why does it sound like a sob?

“Yes.” Hannibal agrees. “But almost not.”

_

“I didn’t know you watched the World Cup, Hannibal.” They are sitting on couches so close together. “It doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d do. I mean, wouldn’t you prefer opera, or something more…weird?”

“I have watched the Cup.” Hannibal smiles fondly at Will. “Ever since I was a child.”

He thinks of Mischa running around with her overlarge jersey ( _his_ jersey that he gave her) and chanting for Italia, Italia, Italia!

_

Will feels immortal, and of course he should, because Hannibal is above him, sweat and rage and poison, thrusting into tenderness, hot flesh meets willing orifice. This is death, Will is dying, his scar is throbbing and his eyes well up, and he spills all over himself, on Hannibal’s slick stomach, but he still moves under the great, wonderful man.

along **_comes_** the spider…..

Hannibal does not know why Will is laughing, laughing fit to save the long-gone innocence they held.

_

Hannibal kisses Will’s forehead and it is hard as bone.

He touches his hands and they are hard as stone.

He whispers his name, but there is no reply.

He caresses his face, and wipes away the lie.

“Will,” he says, and Will wakes up, the hard as bone is now soft, yielding flesh. He looks at his lover with the tortured face and torturing hands. “Will, please.”

“What is it?” Will asks, the concern in his voice mapping onto the urgency in Hannibal’s like hands clasping together. “What’s wrong?”

“I feel…” Hannibal laughs slightly. “Strangely… un-human.”

“Then come here.” Will envelops the big man in his slender fair arms, holds him tight, tight, terribly tight and they close in on themselves.

“Are you human yet?” Will whispers. “Are you flesh and bone now?”

His voice is not steady and his eyes are full.

“Yes.”

_

“And Peter Pan, he would never know what other children knew. The---“

“…tender touches of a mother.” Will finishes for him. “I hate how they’re making it out as if it’s some huge thing to miss, you know. A mother’s kiss, a mother’s hug. Bullshit. I’ve grown up without them. Never had them. You don’t see me longing for a mother, do you?”

But he does, he longs for the motherly affections of Alana Bloom.

“You haven’t either.” Will continues. “You aren’t really flawed. Well, except for the whole stabbing me and running away bit. Also the people eating part, really. _Oh God_ , you are flawed.”

Will laughs a laugh till his face is red and broken, and the tears at his eyes are no longer of mirth.

“Do you want a mother, Will?” Hannibal asks slightly, cruelly.

Will does not respond, but the tears still cling to his cheeks.

“You will _never_ get one.” Hannibal snarls, and kisses him with a passion, with a life and a thundering blue longing. A little sadly, at the end.

“But you will have me.”

_

“Today was her birthday.” Hannibal admits, he is rather embarrassed that he still remembers the birthdays of a girl who will forever remain aged five and three months, eight days, nine hours, scream. But then – Will still celebrates the birthdays of his lover, who died at eleven years, seven months, twenty one days.

“Mischa’s?” Will asks, unnecessarily. “How old would she have been?”

They are tucked under the blankets in winter clothes, cold and loving and damaged.

“Thirty nine.” Hannibal laughs, and grasps onto Will’s hand like a tether. “An old woman. With silver in her hair. Wrinkles at her eyes. Maybe the plump cheeks would have sunken a little, wouldn’t they?”

“Thirty nine isn’t that old.” Will counters, and he tries to suppress his long-awaited scream.

Thirty nine.

A viable, die-able age.

Certainly more so than _five_.

“I wish I could have seen her get old.” Hannibal finally says, and there is a trapped hurt to his voice, one that Will wants to untangle from his throat. “I want to see her hair silver and her eyes dull. Her voice changing, and finally pronouncing my name. I wanted to do so ---“

He laughs, macabrely, and looks down at Will.

“Don’t mind me.” He grins, almost, showing his pointed canines. _Lupine_ , Will thinks slowly. “I get… I am not myself, on this day.”

He laughs again, a forced laugh, and Will joins in.

Is this what they have become?

Later, Will is fast asleep, and Hannibal let the tears come, finally burning his face, shaking his frame. He finally lets himself touch the grief that exists so tangibly inside him, it had always been easy for him to cry in public for a farce – because he had that one memory to draw on, of his sister slowly getting eaten, eaten by a man with an axe. He lets the tears come, and he covers his face with trembling hands that are not holding Will, that are _not_ curling themselves in Will’s beautiful hair because –

Because Will did not exist, not in Hannibal’s current world.

_

Reader, you _must_ have known.

_

There are no stars above Will in Baltimore’s Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He does not know why he is here, like a common captive. He isn’t criminally insane, not any more. He’s simply insane in a sad, pitiable way. Like the insanity of grief. Yes. That was Will’s madness.

“Alana, when is he going to visit?” Will whines, his voice petulant.

Will did have his problems, the chief one being that he still envisions his far-away lover. But why – why did he have to spill them out to Alana Bloom, who moved herself in a wheelchair, her eyes partially sightless, always sad. Why torture the tortured?

“He’s gone, Will.” Her voice shakes. “He left us all. He’s probably in Italy now. Or dead.”

“Not dead.” Will snarls, grabbing the bars. “He’s _not_ dead.”

“Okay.”

It was a rather funny case, if you had looked at it that way. The blind leading the blind, really. But even Brian Zeller, when he thought of that joke, he wept instead of laughing.

_

Hannibal lives a relatively normal life, but the students he teaches at the Italian Medical Academy, they sometimes wonder why their professor talks to himself. Why he sometimes caresses the thin air as if there were some man standing there with blue, laughing eyes. They wonder, but they stop wondering during lectures, when crisp intonations tell them why Alana Bloom, Jack Crawford, and the entire FBI team had fallen for this man.

“Remember, Will…” Hannibal laughs to himself over a glass of wine at night. Hannibal’s madness wasn’t like Will’s. It didn’t require prisons or cages. But it was still a quiet, sad insanity. “Remember how we sat outside that night – the stars slow waltzed their unending dances in the sky. Remember?”

“It’s not the stars that circle around the Earth, it’s the Earth that turns, isn’t it, Han?” Will laughs. You must understand, Hannibal could hear him so clearly, could see his spectacled eyes so beautifully. It’s not your fault _you_ can’t.

“But it is so much nicer to think of the stars dancing, is it not?” Hannibal murmurs and kisses the rim of the glass.

It is so much nicer to think of Will existing, is it not?

_

There is sex, of course there is sex.

But it comes in Will’s dreams, he dreams of his lover straddling him, of feeling his hardness rub against him. He dreams of running his fingers down the harsh body hair of his lover, sucking places that were not meant to be sucked in males. He dreams of biting and thrusting and gasping, of salty sweat dripping on his lips. He dreams of loving and crying and writhing under Hannibal, of half-moon shaped marks left by nails.

But he wakes, of course.

He wakes with a pressing need, and it is with tears in his eyes that he runs his hand down to his pajama pants (they have released him from the Hospital – he is not _that_ insane, you see. Only sad.) and strokes himself to climax, but there is no more fire and ice and Hannibal, only a sad man in a cold room.

-

Hannibal is already awake, he is sitting and drawing (not Will, not Will.) when he feels an urgent arousal tenting his boxers. He ignores it, maybe it may go away, and take the image of Will with it, the smiling ghost. But he only gets harder, it is almost painful – but he is Hannibal Lecter, master of self control. He does not touch himself, not even a quick massage, for doing so will mean that Will has triumphed over his brain again.

He ignores the hardness, the longing and tries to draw, but he sees Will with red lips and large wet eyes, of his slick, awaiting hole and the almost whorish way he would spread his legs wide, wide, come, sir, have a go. Hannibal’s hands tremble, and even though he has not touched himself, even though he has tried so, so hard, he comes in his pants like a child, like a mere boy.

He feels the sticky sluggishness of his shame at his groin, and places his head in his hands.

-

Hannibal Lecter is forty nine years old now – still young, still with only a bit of his hair silver (he wanted to get it dyed, but did not bother yet).

He opens the newspaper, it’s strange Italian tongue, and there is something horrible, horrible in the flapping pages, and Hannibal breaks a teacup, on purpose, he shatters it on the floor.

Crash.

“Will Graham Found Dead at Forty Four. Liver Condition. No Foul Play Suspected.”

Stupid, Hannibal thinks, flinging away the paper. Of course there was foul play. Of course there was.

Found Dead at Forty Four.

A viable, die-able age.

But still better than _five_.

_

He finally visits Will Graham’s grave. This is the final piece of the orchestra, the minor piece. He does not cry at Will’s grave, or scream and rage. He has done all of that years, years ago, when Will was certainly alive. He merely thinks of the way Will would stand so close to him that they fit like two pieces of the same whole. He simply thinks of the way Will’s slender arms would hold him till he was human again.

“To answer your question, Will.” Hannibal says quietly. “I wish to tell you that I do indeed love you. More than myself.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

They kiss, and it does not matter who is real and who is unreal, because sanity is a thin line they do not expect to cross. It does not matter if Will faked a headstone, or whether he is really dead, or whether _he_ was the one who imagines Hannibal come to him. They are happy, so deliriously happy and it is all that matters.

Tonight is a night that blooms with stars and they dance above them, joining them in their sad insanity which has turned into a feverishly delightful madness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> WELL I TOLD YOU THE ENDING IS SOMEWHAT HAPPY RIGHT?!?!?
> 
> Anyway, please do leave me your comments as they literally prompt me to write more of this heartbreaking stuff. I love y'all and await your feedback.


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